


Knife to a musket fight

by PercyByssheShelley



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, post-season one finale, slightly dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:52:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PercyByssheShelley/pseuds/PercyByssheShelley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos checks in on Constance after the events of the finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knife to a musket fight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mardia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/gifts).



“Madame Bonacieux!”

Constance turned as slowly as she could away from the rug she was beating, dragging out the last few moments before she’s summoned inside as long as she can. For weeks she had been attacking any task that took her out of the house with particular fervour- examining fruits and vegetables at the markets with careful attention before making her selections, washing the windows until they’re near invisible, sweeping the front step like Queen Anne herself might be stopping by.

“Madame Bonacieux.” It was one of the neighbour’s older girls, either Marie or Agathe or Anette. She tried her best to keep them straight, but the family has had a baby a year since Constance arrived, all dark haired, freckled, wide-eyed creatures in the same handed down and passed around dresses. “There’s a Musk’teer in the market asking after you.” She had her arms crossed over her chest, and at this she pushed her hands a little deeper into her armpits. Constance caught a glimpse of sunlight on a coin before it was tucked away.

“Thank you… Mademoiselle Boucher,” Constance said, glancing toward the house before hurrying away.

“Agathe,” the girl called after her, in the tone of someone well used to the exchange.

…

 A peculiar mix of disappointment and relief washed through her when she caught a glimpse of a blue cloak far more faded and battle scarred than the one she’d last seen at d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Madame Bonacieux,” he said, inclining his head, then more warmly, “Constance.”

“Porthos,” she said. “What brings you – and your coin – out today?”

He shrugged. “The Musketeers try to follow up on those who’ve been caught up in schemes against the crown whenever they can. And it’s always the duty of a Musketeer to check on a friend.”

She spread her hands out at her sides. “As you can see I’m quite well.”

“Well enough to walk with me a while?”

She hesitated for a moment, but if she was honest with herself just a few moments chatting with him had made her happier than she’d felt in weeks. She missed d’Artagnan, what they had, what they might have had, but just as much she missed her friends and her secret life as their ally. “Where are we going?” she asked, taking his arm.

“There’s an alley a few streets over where we can get some privacy.” At her sidelong glance, he guffawed. “Not that kind of privacy. Here.” He pulled a small, non-descript knife from his pocket and laid it on the forearm she was holding, the sheathed blade toward himself so she could grab the handle. “I thought, with a bit of practice, we could make sure the next person who tries to kidnap you comes to regret it even faster than the last person did.”

“I’m hardly planning to get kidnapped again, Porthos.”

“Of course not. You’re going to stay home and fold linen and silk and stay out of the action for the rest of your life.”

She made a face, but he was right. “Perhaps. But I’m hardly helpless.”

“Of course not,” he said quickly. “But the Musketeers are as far from helpless as you can get, and we still all train every day.”

“I’m not a Musketeer.”

Porthos waved a hand. “Technicality. D’Artagnan wasn’t actually a Musketeer for most of the time he’s been a Musketeer either.”

“So you’re what, making me your apprentice?”

“Oh, I like that,” he grinned, and gestured to the mouth of the alley.

Like he’d suggested, it was out of the way and reasonably private, but also wide and clean and suspiciously empty. She’d bet her last coin that at least one of the buildings on either side was one of the many scattered around the city under the control of the Musketeers or their allies.

“Where shall we begin?” she asked, holding the little knife up to examine it. It was simple and functional, like most of the things Porthos owned. She could always tell which of the four of them owned something- Aramis favoured unnecessary touches, filigree and engraving. All of Athos’ belongings had a heavy weight of history behind them, though he would treat them like they meant nothing to him. D’Artagnan’s were either brand new, or something he had borrowed from one of the others.

“To start, we need to know where you’ll be pulling it from. Where do you intend to hide it?”

She weighed it in her hand, considering. It was a little large to be tucked into her corset, but she could hardly go about the city with it hanging from her belt. “Here?” she suggested, pointing to a pocket at her waist.

“Not bad, although I’d recommend putting another pocket in here.” He twitched the fabric of her skirt a few inches below her hip, about where her hand would hit when her arms were by her sides. “If you stash it somewhere too high up, your opponent is going to see your arm come up to grab it. You want it in your hand before he even realises you have it.”

She let the hand holding the knife fall to her side, and mimed pulling it out of a hidden pocket a few times.

“Now.” He beckoned to her. “I’m going to come at you. You try to stop me from dragging you back to my lair to twirl my moustache and tell you all about my plans to overthrow the crown.”

 He lunged at her and she swung out with the still sheathed knife. He knocked her wrist to the side like it weighed nothing.

“What’s the point of this?” She complained. “You’re a trained Musketeer.”

“You can’t assume your next attacker will be another barmaid. If I go easy on you and you walk away thinking you know this, you might just end up in more trouble.”

He let her come at him a few more times, knocking her aside easily, before he held up a hand. “You’re trying to fight the way you’ve seen us do it, but that’s not the way. You don’t have the defences or the brute strength.” He smiled ruefully. “You know, in a perfect world there’s a woman I’d have had teach you, but you’re stuck with me.  I got into enough scraps with her that I picked some of it up. You’re small, and you’re fast, and your opponent will be overconfident. A man starts a fight with a woman and thinks he’s already won. You need to use that against him.”

…

An hour later they walked back toward the market, both tired and him bruised from some of her better attempts.

“So, am I ready for the Musketeers now?” she joked.

“Absolutely. That’s all it takes, an hour of training. Don’t spread it around though, we try to keep that quiet.”

“On my honour.”

“Just to be safe, we might want to try a few more lessons before we fit you for a cloak. We’re out of the city for a few days, but could you spare another hour next week?”

Constance nodded before even thinking about it. It would be hard, and her husband would grow suspicious quickly, but she couldn’t give any other answer.

They walked in silence for a while, and then Porthos turned and asked quietly, “How are you really, Constance?”

She let the silence carry on, long enough to be its own answer.  “I don’t know. The bruises faded quickly. But I thought I was going to die. I thought we might all die. But we didn’t. And then I thought I was going to be free. But I’m not.” She stopped, and squeezed his arm once before dropping it. “I’d best go on ahead. I don’t know how he’ll react if he sees me in the company of a Musketeer.”

…

Porthos watched her go, watched the way she seemed to collapse into herself as she approached the house, her chin dropping and her shoulders pulling together. But he’d done what he could for her, and he knew people.

He knew this: when you gave a person a knife, and taught them how to use it, they very quickly found something that needed cutting.  


End file.
